Reichenbach Ghost
by Ebonshire
Summary: A different take on the events of The Reichenbach Fall, and what events would have proceeded if something had gone wrong with Sherlock's plan to fake his death. Minor Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

-1-

**_Free-fall_**

I had _really _hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Of course, I knew I had to have a back-up plan, in case things didn't go quite as I planned (which isn't often), but I really thought I had this one sussed out. Sherlock Holmes sees through everyone and everything, right. But that psychopath had an ace-in-the-hole that most _sane _people wouldn't even consider. He'd been out to break me from the start, **burn** me, as he'd gloat, but I never thought for a moment he'd go this absurdly far.

The demented Irishman lay flat-out at my feet, arms open, face twisted in a most disturbingly haggard grin, a thick stream of blood pooling from the back of his head and staining the cold cement of the rooftop. It all happened so damn quickly after he took a hold of me in that bizarre handshake, and I barely had time to register what he was doing before he fell to the ground with that awful gunshot. The lunacy was still in his eyes as he lay there now, the pupils wide and unseeing amidst the deep brown irises.

I staggered backwards from the corpse, my hand flying involuntarily to my mouth in horror. Not for the death of the talented scumbag, but for the knowledge that plan B was going to have to proceed. I took a long, shaking breath and let it out again slowly as I approached the edge of the rooftop once again, surveying what lay below me.

I glanced quickly at my watch – if my timings were about right (why wouldn't they be) it wouldn't be a minute until John showed up, and this unpleasant business had to be underway. I ran a trembling hand through my thick hair, my eyes surveying the taller buildings the vicinity, looking for any signs of the lurker I knew was skulking somewhere close-by. As I weighed up the possibilities, the taxi I had been expecting pulled up some distance away, behind a small lot of garages, and my loyal friend exited hastily, throwing a note at the driver and jogging rather urgently towards my position. I quickly surveyed the ground beneath me again – yes, the placements seemed fine, and everything looked ready. I took a deep breath and speedily dialled John's number.

He instantly reached for his mobile and stopped to answer it as he saw the name on the screen.

"Sherlock, where are you?" He asks loudly, in a worried, demanding tone. I swallow.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," I say bluntly. I can't have him this close. He can't see this. It hurts to do this to him, but there's no other choice now. Aggravatingly, he starts forward again, always the stubborn one.

"No, I'm coming in," he states, in a hard, military fashion. I screw up my eyes and interrupt him, my voice softer and tinged with a hint of pleading.

"Just...do as I ask. Please." He pauses.

"Where?" he asks uncertainly, looking around him as he backs warily away. I wait until he is safely back behind the low set of garages, his view obscured.

"Stop there." I say.

"Sherlock..." he starts again, his voice low and questioning.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

He casts his gaze upwards, and I hear him inhale sharply when he sees me. "Oh, God." His tone is full of apprehension.

I feel a deep wave of early regret wash over me, and I start my next sentence with a weak stammer.

"I –I –I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"...what's going on?"

I stare down at him. "An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me." I bite back my revulsion, "I invented Moriarty."

He is silent for a couple of moments, before replying, "Why are you saying this?" He sounds chastising. I know that even this most frank 'confession' would never convince him against me; he knows me better than I thought anyone ever could. But for his sake, I need him to hear this.

"I'm a fake." The three words are like a stab to my ego; an insult to my life work. My voice breaks slightly as I spit the words, and I feel tears of frustration welling at the back of my eyes. Solemnly, I blink them back, ashamed.

"Sherlock - " John starts again, but I can feel the pressure of the situation building on me, and I interrupt him again in my desperation to get these hideous words out.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." I don't even need to fake the obvious upset in my tone. These slanderous words wound me deeply; knowing everyone I've ever managed to care about; everyone who takes me for who I am will think...no. John won't. And that's what matters to me.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up," he scolds, voice raw with bottled emotion, "The first time we met; the **first** time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

My lips form a tired smile, "Nobody could be that clever."

He responds immediately, "_You_ could."

I laugh breezily at his answer, but my smile droops to solemnity once again a moment later.

"I researched you. Before we met. I discovered everything I could to try and impress you." I clench my free hand, "It's a trick, it's just a magic trick."

"No," He states bluntly, tone rife with annoyance and frustration, "Just **STOP **it now." He starts walking forwards again, his shoulders back, head centred, always the soldier. I can't allow him to see the street below me, it would ruin everything.

"Stay **exactly** where you are!" I say, loudly and forcefully, "Don't move." He hears the intensity of my order, and backs away again, his right hand raised in surrender and reassurance. I reach out my hand in return, hoping to comfort and steady him. But my whole arm is shuddering, and I can't keep the stammers from seeping into my vocal chords. It's almost time.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" I implore, "Please, can you do this for me?" He clearly hears the distress in my articulation, and he answers with a simple, constrained

"...do what?"

"This phone call, it's...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

I see John stiffen, then hopelessly drop the phone from his ear before bringing it up again sharply.

"Leave a note when?" I can tell he knows what I'm about to do. His voice is riddled with impending panic. I just hope to hell he can do what I asked. He _must _stay. There. Or it's the end of everything. I leave my trust in him with my final words to my dear friend.

"Goodbye, John."

"**No. **Don't - " He looks so beseechingly up at me, his stance rigid and completely helpless.

I drop my phone away from my ear and throw it carelessly to the side with a clatter. I cast a last, fleeting glance below me as I hear John scream my name. I spread my arms wide and lean forwards, and let myself fall. The rushing air stings my eyes as blurred shapes pass me, my stomach lurching with this ghastly free-fall. It is only at the last minute do I feel the dreadful pang of panic. Something isn't right. No.

_Where...that's...I..._

Only blackness greets me.


	2. Chapter 2

-2-

_Faraway_

For the longest time, I feel nothing.

Well, I _think _I feel nothing. At this point, I'm not even sure if I'm conscious at all; or just in the throes of some daunting nightmare. After what feels like an eternity, I find I can move my limbs, and I clumsily get up and stagger forwards, my eyes blinded with the whiteness of the foggy sky. I hold my head in my hands as the world spins sickeningly, the loud ringing in my ears slowly subsiding and giving way to the sound of panicked voices and shrill sirens. I blink meekly as my eyes adjust after the darkness, and I turn groggily to the source of the commotion, utterly confused and disoriented.

_What in Christ's name just happened. _

And then, as I behold the scene before me, I all but remember. My mouth falls open, and take a few clumsy steps forwards, my mind struggling to comprehend this impossible situation. For there, lying haphazardly on the pavement slabs, face streaked with ugly streams of blood which spilled into a vulgar puddle around it's head was...myself.

Myself.

My eyes were still open, bleached and icy, staring blankly the way I had fell, my hair saturated in the dark blood pouring from the horrific wound pooling from the back of my head. As I stood gawping in utter disbelief at myself, twisted and mangled before me, I noticed a small figure thrashing through the onlookers, and my heart sank when I saw John, my dear John fall to his knees beside my morose body, grasping madly at the fabric of my coat, and grabbing my limp wrist in firm, precise fingers, letting out a low groan as he clearly finds no pulse. I can't even describe how utterly helpless I feel in this moment, as I fall forwards and wrap my arms around his shoulders, only to fall through him like a shadow. I shout his name right in his ear; and wave my hands wildly in front of his face; but his eyes are closed in sorrow, and my voice is lost on the wind. After a time, someone gently pulls him away from my corpse, and the hand he was holding drops like a stone to the cold floor. Before he is withdrawn completely, he reaches and pulls the thin scarf from my neck, holding it to his cheek as he is led away. I stand, looking back and forth as my body is dragged onto a stretcher, and John is sat down in the back of an ambulance, a blanket draped around him, my scarf still pressed to his face.

The intensity of all this finally hits me, and I sink to the floor in a morbid grimace, my arms covering my head, teeth clenched hard against the terrible sobs bubbling from my throat.

_Why_ had this happened. _Why_ had this happened to me, now. It was all arranged, everything...it was all arranged...

I couldn't fathom whether this had been an honest, unfortunate mistake, or if this was down to treachery. My mind swam with suspicion as I finally arose, and looked back to the now empty spot where my corpse had lain. Obviously what had meant to break my fall _hadn't_ been concealed as I had planned, and my head had met the unyielding ground instead of the cushioned landing I had been expecting. The markings on the floor were correct and accounted for – so _why _had this gone so terribly wrong?

I clenched my fists and turned back around, my gaze lowering to regard myself in the dim daylight. I looked and felt no different; apart from a strange, unplaceable numbness that seemed to encase me, like a morphine cloud around my figure; a phantom nothingness that dullened my senses and made my limbs feel weak and bodiless. I remember my friend, still sat across the way from me, and as I steadily pace towards him, I realised I no longer felt the wind that clearly blustered around me, and my clothing did not move with the breeze.

I sat cautiously beside my mourning friend, regarding him with helpless pity as he struggled to compose himself in his grief. I reach for his shoulder again; but as my fingers scythe uselessly through him, I withdraw my hand sorrowfully, and stare at the floor with a profound sigh.

I take the short interlude to reflect on my plight; still internally reeling at this incomprehensible affair. I didn't see how this could be possible. As a firm believer of logic and universal laws, this whole thing seemed to me about as absurd as it gets. Part of me still assured my logical mind that this was some kind of lucid dream; that I would wake up and this would all be a chilling memory to be forgotten. But I think the rest of me saw that this, however ridiculous, was reality; and my life had irretrievably gone the moment I hit that unforgiving pavement.

I was dead: and there was nothing I could do.

After John had been taken back to Baker St, I found myself wandering the now darkening streets, my head low and melancholy as I walked, vaguely aware of the occasional pedestrian blundering unaware through my now insubstantial form as my thought battled with my predicament.

What was I to do? _Why_ was I still here?

In my limited knowledge of myths and the occult, I seemed to recall a magazine passage, claiming that 'A sudden, unexpected or traumatic death can tear the spirit from the body, and leave it trapped in this world.' I shook my head in distaste; a few hours ago I wouldn't even have considered it worth thinking about. But what else could this be? This was no dream; no dream could be this vivid, this complete and consuming. Though I could externally barely feel anymore, I still felt hugely myself; even more so without the distractions of material elements invading my now-dead senses.

The night blossomed around me, and I found I had unconsciously made my way back to 221b. As I gazed upwards at our window, a saw a dim light shining through the still-open curtains. I closed my eyes and sighed, hesitating a little before walking myself bluntly through the dark, polished door.

He was sat morosely in his chair, head resting on a still-trembling hand, his expression one of utter dead-eyed grief. He stared blankly forwards, mouth tightened and pinched, his other hand gripping the armrest intensely with those weathered fingers. My scarf was lain loosely on his lap. I stood awkwardly in the doorway, regarding my friend with a profound sadness before taking some steps towards him and standing submissively before his slumped form.

"John." I say, loudly. He doesn't respond.

"John." I shout his name forcefully, and reach out to poke his vacant hand, my finger disappearing into his flesh and out again. He shivers involuntarily, and his eyes shift to his hand, frowning a little. I repeat the action, and he flinches his whole forearm upwards, he eyes now darting nervously around the room. I feel a flicker of hope as I see his bare skin can at least feel me, or something of me, and my fingers now move to brush against his face. His eye twitches, and he turns his head to the side in a swift, panicked movement. His breathing intensifies, and he rises suddenly, straight through me, shaking his head heavily and rubbing his eyes roughly with the fingers of his left hand. He remains for a moment before noticing the scarf has fallen to the floor, and he stoops to retrieve it before holding it to his chest and walking wearily out of the room.

I stand, alone again, and a small, optimistic smile creases my lips. If he truly can feel me; maybe I can make him hear me aswell.


	3. Chapter 3

-3-

_**...A distance there is.**_

I felt a part of myself die with him that day.

I was still angry. Awful and distressing though it felt; I was angry with him. I couldn't bring myself to believe he had truly done such a stupid, irresponsible, cowardly thing. That is perhaps what annoyed me most: one thing Sherlock was _not,_ was a coward. _Why_ had he done such a gutless thing.

Everything he had said to me from that lonely rooftop, all those awful words that had pained him so much to say, I knew I'd never believe, and I'm sure he'd had to know that as well. Sherlock had been far from perfect; most of the time he drove me up the wall with his ceaseless pomposity and _bloody_ annoying habits, and sometimes I _really_ wanted to punch his lights out just to shut him **up** for a bit. But it was clear what really mattered to him; and I saw past all the Aspergers-fuelled coldness to see the softer man concealed inside, with the burning compassion for righteousness that drove him forward. And I had witnessed firsthand the lunacy of that maniac Moriarty; and it was crystal to me that THAT was no act. How in hell could it be.

I thought I might never truly know what went on that day, but I knew for a fact that I'd never hear a word against him. Not now, not ever.

In the days after the...accident, I felt a lifelessness I had experienced only once before; and that was straight after my arrival back in London after my injury. I felt as alone and abandoned then as I did now; but now I had the horrid, gaping hole of an absence I never knew existed before. I think a small part of me even wished I had never met him to begin with. His departure was the heaviest burden I've ever had to carry, and I felt the loss more profoundly than any casualty of war. The world would never again see a man like him, and nothing in my life would come close to the friendship we'd shared.

I spent the days sitting, brooding, remembering. The flat was morbidly silent without his all-enveloping presence, and his belongings sat mournful and unused. I doubted I would ever have the strength to pack everything away – it would be a form of acceptance and dismissal I wasn't prepared to face. As hopeless as it sounded; having everything lain out just as it was before made it seem like he was just away...that he'd return someday. I knew better than anyone how unhealthy this is for the psyche, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything anymore.

But despite the flat's obvious emptiness, something felt strange; something unplaceable that sat uneasy on the edge of my consciousness. It was faint; but familiar. I occasionally thought I felt things...a strange draught, a cold spot in the air, even what felt like freezing breath on my skin. The thoughts in my head haunted me, and pulled me farther into my grief; though I told myself how utterly ridiculous these thoughts were. All I wanted, if I couldn't have him back, was closure. Something I was afraid I could never achieve, if I could never let him go.

The date of the funeral came around dutifully; and everything felt so surreal, sat at the front of the bleak, draughty hall in my tight, starched suit staring at the varnished, sparsely-adorned coffin ahead where my friend now lay. Only we who had been close to him were present that day, which to be honest, I preferred rather that an informal, crowded service. It felt like only we who understood him should be there at his very end.

It was still so hard to comprehend in my head that the great Sherlock Holmes was lain stiffly in that box, still and lifeless, that deep monotonous voice silenced forever. I had seen him before the lid was closed in the hours beforehand, though I wasn't sure if I really should or not. The body was still in its neat shirt and suit jacket, expressive eyes now closed, his expression disturbingly blank. As the next of kin, Mycroft had been given the personal effects from the body; consisting of his silver watch, the wallet and contents which had been in his pocket, and his Belstaff coat, which Mycroft had said was 'Too fine to be buried' with a dead smile. He had then passed them all onto me, saying, 'He'd want you to have them more than me.' The coat therefore hung in its rightful place back home; and his scarf, which I had taken from him on that foul day now hung loosely around my own neck.

It still smelt of him; and was a soothing comfort for me to have close.

After the short, flavourless service, we filed silently outside; and he was buried in the quiet earth; now with nothing but a black headstone to with his name written simply on the front to attest to his existence.

And I felt so very alone.

(-)

Seeing my own funeral was the most disconcerting thing I'd ever experienced.

I felt strangely like I shouldn't even _be_ here, even it was my own corpse now buried in the clammy earth in that grim cemetery. I hadn't left John's side since I had returned to 221b, though I knew it troubled him a great deal, even if he didn't understand fully what was happening, that my presence still lingered. He would shiver and wince whenever I'd gently touch his skin, but my voice still fell on deaf ears, and his sadness would only deepen. He seemed to wander about aimlessly, like he was in a waking dream, and his eyes carried none of the intense compassion I was so used to seeing. It was as if, inside, he was as dead as I was.

And I'm not sure _what_ I felt when I saw myself lying in that awful casket; it mainly just intensified the feeling that this was some hallucinogenic out-of-body experience, and I'd jolt awake any second, back to myself, back _alive.  
_Even though I was for some reason incredibly anxious to, but irresistibly compelled, I reached forward and brushed the side of my pallid face. I had some half-hearted hope that if nothing else I would be able to feel my own skin; us being one and the same, but my hand brushed through it like everything else, and I concurred there was nothing left of myself in that ashen husk. Everything I had been resided in this, whatever it was...this dizzying vertigo of insubstantial unlife I now inhabited.

John stood by my fresh grave now, alone, head bowed, my scarf ruffling with the light breeze from around his neck, where it had been pretty much constantly this past week. I smiled sadly at the sentiment, and it comforted me that something I left behind could comfort _him. _His head rose after a while, and he looked slightly anxiously around him before clearing his throat awkwardly. I stood, melancholy and unseen as he spoke his heartfelt eulogy to my lonely headstone.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero...there were times when I didn't think you were _human_, but let me tell you this. You were...the best man...the most human...human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So...there..." He reached out a hand and brushed the headstone with tender fingers, "I was...so alone, and I owe you so much." He swallowed back his rising anguish and nodded defensively to himself. He was about to walk away when he turned back suddenly, his eyes bright and shimmering.

"Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing...one more miracle, Sherlock, please, for me..." He stared down at his feet, his voice catching in his throat as I looked on in utmost heartbreak.

"Don't be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just...stop it, stop this..." He gestured solemnly at the dank earth of my final resting place, before slowly withdrawing the hand and holding his face sorrowfully, his breathing laboured and uneven. I was next to him in an instant, and we stood together in my helpless phantom embrace, as the gloomy afternoon lamented with us in a bluster of autumn leaves.


End file.
